


Thirty Day Challenge

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: 30 Day Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: CIA wet jobs, Illness, M/M, Poison, mary is not a good person - Freeform, mention of stillbirth, pining!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is part of the 30 Days Writing Challenge. I will be writing for the Sherlock Fandom.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the 30 Days Writing Challenge. I will be writing for the Sherlock Fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 1 - Shopping

John is in hospital. _A touch of pneumonia, Sherlock. Really, he'll be fine._ Mary is quite sure. She hasn't left his side in five days. Supposedly, John will come home soon. Sherlock has tortured his violin, performed explosive experiments, and generally made all matter of noise until Mrs. Hudson gave in and came to see what all the fuss was about. She may not be Sherlock's housekeeper, but she can be surprisingly insightful at times. 

"Oh the poor dears. They must be worn out from being in hospital. Did you say John was coming home soon? Oh Sherlock, you should do some shopping for them. I know they'd appreciate that. Go on. Just a few things so Mary doesn't have to nip out the moment they get home." 

She is surprisingly gentle, understanding that Sherlock wants to help but can't reclaim his place at John's side. Not anymore. John has a wife now. A wife who is already at his side. No room for best friend consulting detectives. She pats his cheek and presses a small silver key into his palm. The sight of the inoffensive object makes his chest burn. John had given Mrs. Hudson a spare key. Sherlock has never even seen the house.

Sherlock folds his arms and clutches his ribs. Perhaps if he squeezes hard enough, he can hold the jagged pieces of himself together. He bows his head against the wind and sets off, quickly researching the nearest Tesco to John and Mary's new home.

Thirty-five minutes later, Sherlock is stood in the bread aisle. His eyes are wide and his breathing shallow. This was incredibly stupid. He is least equipped to do this for John and Mary. He hasn't had a meal with John in months, not more than an occasional cup of tea. Does John even like black current jam anymore? Does he still demand that one brand of crisps that Sherlock can never remember? He spent months memorizing the packaging. He hopes they haven't changed it.

Sherlock starts to hyperventilate as he looks over the bread selections again. John has never been picky, but Sherlock has no idea about Mary. Does she have any allergies? Does she have to avoid gluten? She is prone to baking her own bread. Will she be offended if Sherlock buys some? His head spins and the fluorescent lights blaze bright. 

Sherlock finds himself crouched on the floor with his back against the wall. He puts his head between his knees and tries to tune out the football team of ten year-olds that just poured into the store. He ignores their comments as they yell and point at the weird man on the ground. He focuses on his breathing. Deep, cleansing breaths. Just the way his therapist taught him. The therapist he denied having. But he had needed someone when he returned. John had made it clear he would not be available.

After a few minutes, he feels okay enough to lift his head. His vision still swims a bit, but thankfully the gaping customers have moved on. He swipes at his eyes, fighting hard against the tremor in his hands. He pulls himself up on shaking knees until he stands tall-backed and proud: Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective once more.

He has done many dangerous things for John before. This is hardly the worst. Sherlock spends the next twenty minutes picking out the things he remembers John buying most often. Easy essentials that can be combined into quick, wholesome meals. He also is sure to grab John's hobnobs, crisps, and milk of course. He mutters it to himself the whole time he is in the store. He mustn't forget the milk. John is adamant about milk in his tea.

Finally, Sherlock makes it to the checkout. It takes the teenager behind the counter three tries to give him correct change. Sherlock is so grateful by the end of the ordeal that he simply takes it and leaves without reply. He hails a cab and breathes a sigh of relief to have done something right, something helpful. At least he hopes it will be.

The ride is not long and Sherlock tips the cabbie who helps carry a few of the bags to the porch. Sherlock unlocks the door and slips inside once the cab has driven away. The entranceway leads to a cozy sitting room. Mary's influence is clear. There are no dark colors or tall-backed chairs here. The room is a gentle sea-foam blue. The simple domesticity of it claws at Sherlock's throat. He hurries into the kitchen and shelves all the groceries. It is not hard to figure out their storage system. Dry goods in the pantry, crisps above the stove, perishables in the fridge. It's all pretty standard.

Sherlock folds the carrier bags and stows them next to the bin under the sink. John used to like to reuse them. Sherlock glances once more around the shiny, bright kitchen and grips the cool marble of the island like a lifeline. This is John. John's house. He can feel the man everywhere. But there is no Sherlock here. He feels like an intruder. Perhaps, John did not want him in the house. That's why he has not been invited. He and John remain friends but his married life and his crime fighting life must stay in different spheres. No crossing-over.

Sherlock bites his lip and turns to leave just as the doorknob turns. A wind-swept, red-cheeked Mary ushers her still-ill husband over the doorstep. They both stop at the sight of Sherlock running out of their kitchen. Sherlock's heart pounds. He feels trapped.

"Sorry. Groceries. For you. Mrs. Hudson's key. Sorry. I'll just…"

He rushes past the flabbergasted couple and sprints down the block. Sherlock is far away before he detours into a park. He rests against a tree, letting his back slide down the trunk until he is sitting with his knees drawn to his chest. Only then, does he let himself cry.


	2. Gardening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 2 - Gardening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make this all one inter-connected story. This might be a little ambitious...we will see. Let me know what you think in the comments. Thanks for reading!

John wipes his dirty gloves across his jean-clad thighs. He pulls one of his gloves off and swipes the sweat off his forehead. He leans his face toward the sky, basking in the sun. He had thought he would hate this. Tending the earth had never really sounded like his thing. But he had needed a hobby. He isn't well enough to go back to work and his usual hobby has cut him off completely since he got home from hospital.

John pulls his phone from his pocket and checks to see whether he has missed a notification. He knows he hasn't. He has been checking his phone every twenty minutes since Sherlock whirled out of their kitchen three weeks ago.

He pulls up the messaging app and scrolls through his most recent messages.

_What the hell was that about? You leave the Bunsen on again? You could have at least stayed for tea._

_Alright, you must have a case since you haven't answered me in five days. Mary wants to have you over for dinner. Will you come?_

_Going on day eleven. I'm really starting to worry. Text me back._  

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock!_

_Please. I don't know what I did but I'm sorry. Just…please. Text me. I need to know that you're okay._

John's finger hovers over the keyboard as he decides whether or not to try again. Clearly, Sherlock doesn’t want to be bothered. Not by him anyway. But then he remembers too-long silences and skin stretched taut over icy features. He remembers an empty fridge and untouched cups of tea. He remembers the panicked-caught look on his best friend's face as he sprinted down the street. His fingers are typing before he even finishes the train of thought.

_Look. I've been too ill to come over. Answer me by the end of the day, or I swear to God I will crawl over there. I'm really worried, Sherlock._

John shuts his eyes and presses send, willing the forces of fate that he doesn’t believe in to send him a reply. Surprisingly, his phone pings a moment later. John is so startled that he nearly drops it in the dirt. His fingers scrabble across the screen in his eagerness to read the message.

_You're still ill? - SH_

John's heart clenches. It had been years since Sherlock had deemed it necessary to sign his texts. John had teased him about it. _What, you think I know many madmen who text me impossible demands at all hours of the day and night? I know it's you, Sherlock. You don’t have to sign them._ Sherlock had blushed a bright crimson that stained his cheekbones and sent John's heart into his throat.

_Yes. Which you'd know if you bothered to return my texts, you enormous pain in the arse._

…

Three dots appear as John stares at the phone. He's not sure his electronic demands actually warrant a smartphone, but Mary had insisted. This is one of the only perks he has found useful so far. He can see that Sherlock has read his message and is typing. The screen goes dead for a moment and John's heart drops. The three dots reappear for a moment before a message quickly replaces them.

_That's unusual. Your lengthy illness, not the name-calling. Honestly. Have you run out of creative invectives to hurl, John? You're recycling already. -SH_

John grins at the familiar petulant tone. He missed the colossal berk. He lies back in the warm grass and lets the blades tickle his ears. He rests the phone on his drawn up knees as he considers his reply.

_Busy with a case?_

Sherlock's reply is swift and sharp.

_No. - SH_

John's heart races with the anticipation of seeing his friend.

 _Good. You're free for tea, then. Come 'round about three, yeah?_  

 _No. - SH_  

_Come on! I need a distraction. Plus, I've taken up a new hobby. I promise to let you deduce it out of me the moment you step in the house. Please?_

_Fine. - SH_

John clutches the phone to his chest and feels a giggle bubbling up. He laughs aloud, startling a few honeybees that buzz in annoyance and fly away in the sunshine. He pulls himself back to sitting and starts to gather the trowel and rake lying nearby. He sets them back down and types out one last text before slipping the phone back into his pocket and heading inside to have a wash. Sherlock should be here in about forty minutes.

_I still know it's you._

Exactly forty-three minutes later, a scowling Sherlock is standing on his doorstep. John knows he must be irritated that he's late. He smiles welcomingly and gestures quizzically toward the box in his hands. 

 _"_ Apologies for the tardiness. Mrs. Hudson insisted on sending a cake when she found out I was coming to yours for tea. It delayed my departure."

John hates the formality that clings to Sherlock. It's clear in his words and the tense line of his neck as he bears it high. His face is purposefully blank and his eyes are glacial. John can hardly stand it. He takes the box from Sherlock and lets his fingers brush the detective's hands. Sherlock jerks away from the touch and almost sends the cake toppling to the floor in his haste to get away. John's forehead crinkles but he doesn't comment. He points Sherlock toward the back patio where he's already laid out a tray.

John busies himself fixing their cups while Sherlock surveys the yard. His critical eye sweeps over every last centimeter, and John is sure he's already noticed the garden. He smiles as he hands over the sweetened cup. John leans back in his own chair and stirs milk into his tea.

"So…"

He throws the word out there to catch Sherlock's attention and drag it back to the table. Sherlock seems almost reluctant to meet John's gaze. 

"What have you been so busy with lately? Got some good cases on?"

Sherlock fiddles with the saucer. The porcelain clatters and he draws his hands back quickly. He shoots John an apologetic glance before resuming his stare at the still-gloved hands he now has bundled in his lap. The uncertain feeling claws its way through John's stomach again. The timidity radiating from his friend is so out of place that John hardly knows what to do. He rests his arm, palm up, on the table and softly clears his throat.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice is oddly compatible with the day, all soft lavender and downy clouds. Sherlock sucks in breath and forces himself to look up.

"Something is wrong."

It's not a question. John still knows him better than anyone. He is still taking pains to keep Sherlock in his comfort zone, not talking as much as possible. 

"Take me through it?"

Sherlock's eyes soften at the familiar question. How many times had John asked him that exact question at a crime scene. This is them - give and take. This is utterly familiar, stable ground. Though it doesn’t make Sherlock any more eager to respond. He knows his options here are limited. There is no way to talk about the problem without dragging his feelings for John and the scars of Serbia out of the shadows. But he promised John that there would be no more lies between them. He could refuse to answer, but John has that determined look he gets when he has his mind made up to wrestle an answer out of Sherlock. Sherlock capitulates with a sigh.

"Re-assimilation has been…difficult."

There. Complete truth without giving too much away. Sherlock feels his muscles twitching, ready to run. He swallows the adrenaline and sips his tea, waiting for John. He is unsure how much John will probe, but he knows there will be questions. Hoping to head off the inevitable, Sherlock spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Why gardening?"

John looks confused for a moment before his face straightens out into fond amusement.

"Go on, then. Tell me how you worked it out."

The familiar flow of information winds itself around Sherlock's brain. He settles into the comforting cadence of deductions. His shoulders grow lax and his face lights up in a way John has not seen in months. Sherlock's words slow as he reaches the end of his list. His brow puckers.

"But you don't tend the herbs. Why?"

"You can't work that one out?"

"I can see that you don’t tend it, but I can't tell why without more information. There are too many possibilities." 

Sherlock looks wounded by the fact that he can't deduce this, so John doesn't tease. 

"It's Mary's. She's always tended it. I just recently started the garden."

Sherlock nods tersely, taking the explanation without comment.

"You're still ill."

Sherlock speaks the words like there is a question there. John rolls his shoulders and shrugs.

"It's not unheard of. I had a bit of a relapse when I came home and almost had to go back to hospital, but it's clearing away well enough on its own now. I should be back to full strength any day now."

John's smile flickers at the pensive expression on Sherlock's face.

"John…"

The trepidation is back in Sherlock's voice. It is the tone more than anything that makes John sit up and take notice. Sherlock is clearly anxious about whatever he is about to say.

"What were you doing before your relapse?" 

He has no idea where Sherlock is going with this, but he trusts the man.

"Uh…came home, watched a detective flee the house for reasons still unknown, unpacked my bag, had dinner, and Mary gave me my meds before bed…" 

Sherlock's hands bunch into fists and his eyes squeeze shut. His frame is vibrating and his breathing is shallow and quick. John stands and walks around the table to crouch by his friend's side. 

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

John stays close but knows better than to touch. Sherlock manages a terse nod but doesn’t stop shaking.

"Okay. I'm going to sit here, alright? Now, I'm breathing deeply. Can you try? Just follow me. Nice and easy."

Sherlock's breath stutters on a gasp as he tries to force a deep breath into his lungs. A choked whimper escapes his throat and he tightens his fists in aggravation.

"I know this is hard. And you feel embarrassed. I know, Sherlock, but it's just me. Just you and me. Breathing. Okay?"

John continues his exaggerated breathing. Sherlock fights to take deep breaths. After a few minutes, his chest rises more regularly and he reaches one hand out to wrap his long fingers around the delicate skin of the inside of John's wrist. It takes a moment for John to realize that Sherlock is taking his pulse. He lets his own breathing and the deep, even beat of his heart steady Sherlock.

The two men sit with each other as the afternoon sun turns to an evening glow. Sherlock's tremors eventually subside. He blinks his eyes open and fixes his gaze on his lap. He squeezes John's wrist in thanks and withdraws the hand to wrap his arms around his drawn-up knees. John stays sitting by his side, not moving or speaking.

"My time away was…"

Sherlock seems to search for a word. Just when John thinks he's lost the detective to his memories, Sherlock continues.

"…unpleasant. Apologies for my reaction. Your medication is being administered intravenously, correct?"

John swallows and nods.

"Right. We need to get you out of here. Now."

In an instant, Sherlock is on his feet and looms above John, six feet of infinite capability. He reaches down to offer help. John grasps his hands and together, they pull John to his feet.

"What? Sherlock! You have to explain. What is going on?"

Sherlock's words come out in a tangled rush. He's not sure John can even understand him, but his desire to get John away from here before Mary returns overrides his desire for clarity of enunciation.

"Think, John! You were cleared by the hospital to return home. You participated in no strenuous activity and were not exposed to the elements. There is no reason why your condition should have worsened. Unless someone tampered with the injections. Mary's extensive knowledge of herbs would have made it only too easy. She probably made you sick in the first place. We need to leave before she comes back. I won't be of any help if she tries to fight us. I can't even look at a n-n-needle. Please, John. Can we j-just…can we…can we…?"

John can see Sherlock sliding back into a panic. He grips Sherlock's shoulders. 

"Okay. I just need to grab some clothes, and we'll go."

He presses his hand into Sherlock's and guides him up the stairs. Once in his bedroom, John pulls his canvas bag out from under the bed and tosses in the entirety of his wardrobe. He hasn’t accumulated much since his Baker Street days and it all still fits in the one bag. He nips into the washroom to gather his toiletries and zips it authoritatively closed. He slings the bag over one shoulder and grips Sherlock's hand again in the other. He squeezes tightly and leads them both out of the house.

The reality of what just happened washes over John as they slide into a cab. At the time, he had been fixated on keeping Sherlock calm and following his instructions. Now, images of Mary flood his mind: Mary bent over her herbs in her big, floppy gardening hat; her bright smile as she incorporates them into her cooking; the smear of dirt she always seems to track down her nose; the tang of earth John smells when he kisses her cheek. All lies. Every last part of their life together had been a lie.

John looks up to see Sherlock watching him. The detective's face is tight with sorrow.

"I am sorry, John."

Sherlock lays his hand over John's, tangling their fingers together. He gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze and leaves John to his thoughts as he stares vacantly out the window of the cab whisking them back to Baker Street once more.

 


	3. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 3 - Gifts.
> 
> This chapter has an oblique reference to stillbirth. If you think that may be triggering, please do not read. I am happy to send you a summary that excludes that reference if you want. Just ask!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who had questions but stuck with this story. I hope this chapter begins to answer them.

_The smell of chlorine fills Sherlock's nose as he raises John's Browning._

_"You know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"_

_"Oh, let me guess: I get killed."_

_"Kill you? N-no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, some day. I don’t wanna rush it though. I'm saving it for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I'll burn you."_

_Moriarty's empty, psychotic face shifts and melts into a menacing grey vapor that swallows the rest of the man until the vapor is all that remains. His words echo off the walls as a high, clear female voice mixes with James' sinister lilt._

_"I will burn the heart out of you."_

_The vapor shimmers and recedes. As the smoke clears, Sherlock can make out delicate, white lace and the sweeping skirt of a wedding dress. He trails his eyes up the figure in front of him to discover the cold, determined eyes of Mary Morstan, the resplendent bride, staring down the barrel of what had been Jim's pistol. Her teeth gleam between her perfectly painted red lips as she pulls the trigger._

Sherlock wakes with a start, panting hard, and covered in sweat. He unconsciously sweeps his hand over the small round aching scar on his chest. He can hear John puttering with the kettle in the kitchen. The domesticity of it settles in his bones and leeches the worst of his tension away. Sherlock closes his eyes and bathes in the rightness of the moment. The flat has been too quiet without John.

The toaster pops and the kettle whistles as the smell of fried egg drifts down the hall and sets Sherlock's traitorous stomach growling. He rolls out of bed and wraps his deep blue dressing gown around himself as he staggers into the en suite. Scowling at the hopeless tangle of curls that sits atop his head, Sherlock studiously avoids the mirror as he washes, shaves, moisturizes. He plucks a long, wiry, stray hair that seems determined to disrupt the carefully structured arch of his brow.

Feeling more himself, Sherlock heads toward the kitchen hoping to avoid a full meal but definitely angling for tea. He is not disappointed. A steaming mug sits across from John at the breakfast-laden table. Sherlock smiles his thanks and sits.

"You'll want to talk about it then," Sherlock says around a mouthful of toast. Clever John to put the plate of honeyed toast next to his mug. 

John lifts a fried egg and sets it carefully on top of his own buttered toast. He bites into the monstrosity and flicks his tongue out to catch the stray yolk running down his jaw. Sherlock gulps and looks away, trying to concentrate on the seriousness of the situation. His rebellious cock pays no attention as it hardens with anticipation.

John hums and smacks his lips. He seems lost in the pleasure of eating his breakfast, so Sherlock clears his throat and shifts in his seat, trying to get the conversation back on track. But John continues his meal and ignores Sherlock until he slips the last strip of bacon into his mouth with relish and sucks the grease thoroughly from his fingers.

Sherlock's heart beats double-time in his chest as John raises his head to gaze searchingly at Sherlock's face. John pushes his chair slightly back from the table and folds his hands in his lap. He licks his lips anxiously as his throat works convulsively over the words he doesn’t want to say.

"So…Mary is-"

"Not retired."

Sherlock finishes the sentence for John. After all, it is the simplest truth he will have to convey.

"How long-"

"I suspect the woman we know as Mary Morstan never really retired. She closed her accounts and slipped her leash, but her bolt-holes and emergency assets remain in place. Furthermore…"

Sherlock stops talking abruptly at the incredulous-cum-disappointed look on John's face.

"John?"

"For a genius, you can be spectacularly ignorant, you know that? I don’t care about all that, Sherlock. How long have _you_ known?" 

Sherlock flinches at the quiet ferocity and unspoken accusation. 

"I didn’t know, John. I swear. I didn’t know."

"You seem pretty bloody well informed!" 

Sherlock rushes to explain as John's voice rises. If he doesn’t get control of the conversation, it will only be another 3.2 minutes before John storms out of the flat, judging by the escalation rate he has displayed thus far. Now that John's left Mary, he can’t go out on his own. It's too dangerous, and John is too valuable a target. He needs to _fix_ this. Now.

"How long, Sherlock? Since she shot you? Since the hospital? Since Magnussen? You _told_ me we were safe. You told me that she retired, that she was scared. _You_ convinced me to go back to her. Was that all part of some plan to keep her complacent while you figured her out? Am I just some convenient pawn you’re not afraid to sacrifice so long as you get to take the queen in the end?" 

John's chest is heaving as he breathes hard. Sherlock curses the day John convinced him to explain the subtler points of chess strategy. His voice is soft and genuine when he replies.

"I didn’t know, John."

The silence expands and fills the room with a foreboding stillness that neither man is anxious to break. Sherlock's fingers twitch at his sides as Mrs. Hudson's clock chimes the hour. John's shoulders slump in defeat. He gestures toward the sofa. Sherlock never really got around to replacing John's chair. 

The detective draws his legs up under himself and turns his body so he sits sideways. John sits gingerly on the far end and stares resolutely forward. In profile, the strain marking John's face is amplified. His eyes are puffy and ringed by deep wrinkles. His whole frame sags into the sofa as the weight of three years, of endless secrets, of gravity itself bears him down. 

John wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and clears his throat.

"Okay. You didn’t know. But you figured something out. That’s why you were so intent on making me leave. You figured something out yesterday." 

Sherlock leans forward, hands braced on knees, exuding sincerity.

"I hadn't seen you in weeks. Not properly. Not since…"

Sherlock blinks hard and chokes down the constriction in his throat. He can still smell that specific blend of medical-grade antiseptic and Clair-de-la-lune. He can still hear the way John's chest rattled and squeezed around each harsh, despairing sob. Every time he closes his eyes, he still sees a soft, warm, unmoving pink bundle cradled to John's chest as salty tears fall on her head like the rain she'll never get to feel. Sherlock doesn’t need to say the word. The memory of his stillborn daughter is etched into every line on John's face.

"Mary's herb garden caught my eye. She had a shockingly large variety. Lots of plants no novice gardener would own and any knowledgeable gardener would know not to use in their cooking. Many of the herbs in your yard are poisonous, lethal upon ingestion. When you mentioned the suddenness of your illness and its strange recurrence, it all became clear. What I can’t understand is why now? She's had ample opportunity to poison you for weeks. Why wait?"

John's face flushes with shame as he stares at his feet.

"I didn’t spend a lot of time at home after…"

"I mostly pissed away the days in pubs meeting anyone who was available: Greg, Bill, some old rugby mates, even Stamford came out once. I can't really remember the last time I ate a meal at home."

Sherlock's forehead creases as he tries to figure out how Mary introduced the toxin if John wasn't eating at home.

"I don't think I had anything more than coffee at home until Mary got on this new health kick three weeks ago. She insisted on making us these smoothies for breakfast. Tasted like regurgitated grass. I mean, who wants to drink something _green_ in the morning! I…"

John trails off as the answer slots into place. 

"Oh my god. She binned all the coffee. Said she wanted us to try again. She said that eating healthier would be better for a baby. I didn’t even question it. Jesus!"

Sherlock's eyes slide closed in resignation. If Mary started making the smoothies three weeks ago, the timing fits. That fact increases the probability of Mary's involvement to practical certainty. John laughs, low hysterical giggles that he can't seem to control.

"The worst part is that I'm not even surprised. Not really. I should be angry. I should feel betrayed. But I don't. I just feel really, really relieved."

John breathes the last word like a benediction.

"After Magnussen. After she…shot you, I was so angry, Sherlock. I wanted nothing to do with her. I couldn’t even look at her face and our house was covered in wedding photos. When you almost died. _Again_. I was so afraid to leave your room. I know it sounds stupid but I felt like if I stayed, you would have to stay too."

 _I will always be there. For all three of you._  

Sherlock can read the memory of his promise in the deep anguished blue of John's eyes.

"You followed me."

John jumps at the sudden change in conversation.

"At the house. When I realized it was Mary. I didn't explain, but you followed me."

John's face grows sad. He hates that he has put them in this place where Sherlock has to question John's loyalty. He tries to pull all of his sincerity to the surface, tries to make himself as transparent as possible, willing Sherlock to look and see. 

"You said we needed to leave." 

Sherlock nods indulgently but doesn't look entirely convinced.

"So what’s the plan?"

"What?"

"You solved it. You got me out. But Mary's not stupid. She's bound to notice a missing husband, even if said husband has been spending all his time down the pub."

"Of course!"

Sherlock sweeps out of the room, leaving John perplexed. He is back in less than a minute carrying a small plastic cup. John backs away and tries to avoid it, but Sherlock pushes it into John's hands, smiling craftily. 

"For you." 

"What. The. Hell."

"It’s not mine. Well, it's from me but it’s not mine, technically."

"Not yours? Sherlock! Whose piss am I holding right now?"

"Really, John. That's the question you want to go with. I thought you'd be more interested in the why of it all."

John is still staring in horror.

"It’s Wiggins'. Test it. It'll light up like a Christmas tree. I promise."

"Why do I need a jar of piss that will test positive for opiates?"

"Because I am in the middle of a relapse. Obvious."

John's eyes go wide with concern.

"Not an actual relapse. For god's sake, John, keep up. You need a viable reason to stay away from your house.  So, I orchestrated a relapse. This way, you can tell Mary that I am struggling with my sobriety and stay here without raising her suspicions. I assumed actually relapsing would have been taking it too far, but Wiggins is still an active user, so I asked him for a sample. Once I explained it was a stand-in for me, he was more than happy to oblige." 

John's mouth gapes and he seems frozen for a few moments before a deep laugh pushes its way out of his belly. 

"You're welcome."

"That's brilliant. And insane. God, I love you, you brilliant nutter."

 

 


	4. Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 4 - Kisses

The room buzzes with tension around the two men.

_That's brilliant. And insane. God, I love you, you brilliant nutter._

The air in the room is so loud. Sherlock can hear it crackle and stretch between them. John's words reverberate around Sherlock's skull.

_Brilliant._

_Insane._

_Love._

_I Love -_

_You._

_Love you._

His eyes never leave John's face. He watches as John's expression shifts from breathless laughter to white-faced fear to melancholy regret. Sherlock can see the exact moment he tips from hopeful to regret. He watches John's face grow taut and blank.

_Is this what I look like?_

_Is this how it feels when I shut him out?_

Sherlock doesn't want to hear him say it. He doesn’t want to listen to John explain away his feelings. He doesn't want to hear John belittle, minimize, fold it down to a breathless sigh that might never have been there at all. Just this once, Sherlock wants to get it right. For him to speak and John to listen. He wants John to understand that he feels this way too. That he has lived, several times over, for the strength of loving John.

Time is speeding up, or Sherlock is loosing track of it. Either way, John's mouth is opening and Sherlock can't bear to hear what he is about to say. He rushes to think of something -

John sucks in a deep breath that dissolves in a painful coughing fit. The bronchial spasms force John to hunch over and rasp for breath between wheezing coughs. He clutches his throbbing sides and groans. In his hurry to leave the house, John had left all his medications there. Not that he is sure any of them are safe to use, but he will need an albuterol inhaler at the very least. The bronchospasms had been an unwelcome shock on top of the pneumonia.

Sherlock freezes with uncertainty.

_Should John sit? Put his head between his legs? No. That’s hyperventilation. Should he raise his arms, put his hands on his head, open up the airways? It works for asthma, perhaps…._

Sherlock just doesn’t know. He relies on John for these kinds of things. John collapses heavily onto the sofa and motions for Sherlock to sit as well.

“Sorry,” John rasps between coughs.

Sherlock waves off the apology and tries to think of all the things John has done for him when he is sick. He remembers gentle hands and gentler words. Care. John shows him care. He can do that, he thinks. Sherlock clears his throat.

“I could, uh, run you a bath?”

John stares for a moment, dumbfounded. Sherlock starts to sweat and fidget. Maybe, that was not the right thing to say? He watches John warily, hoping he won’t leave. He’s clearly not well. Sherlock is sure he can do better.

“Or – “

“That would be great.”

They speak at the same time, and John blushes red. It is surprisingly humbling to see Sherlock so eager to help. The detective launches himself off the sofa and hovers before John with a startlingly tender expression.

“Stay here. Relax. I’ll call when it’s ready?”

Sherlock’s tone slides into vulnerability toward the end. He shifts his weight onto his left leg and looks at John demurely through his lashes.

“Thank you." 

John relaxes into the familiar cushions and suffuses the statement with all the genuine warmth he can muster.

Sherlock can hear sporadic wheezing until the rush of water against porcelain drowns out all other sounds. Sherlock slips into his room as the tub fills and pulls a small, plastic storage box out from underneath his bed. He actually spent time picking this box personally. He wanted to be sure it would seal and protect the items inside from dust, water, chemicals, everything. He pulls off the lid with a _POP_ as the edges of the lid unlatch from the plastic sides of the box. The smell of honey and eucalyptus fills the room, and Sherlock smiles as he removes two candles, an RAMC lighter, and a half-used bottle of mentholated bath salts. John used to use the salts for his leg and shoulder on bad days. Clutching the items and a clean towel, Sherlock slinks back into the bathroom in time to add the salts and turn off the tap before the tub overflows. He sets the towel on the sink, sets the candles on the edge of the tub, lights them, and flips out the light.

Sherlock pads back into the sitting room and smiles. John is asleep with his head tipped-back against the back of the sofa. Leaving him to sleep a moment longer, Sherlock gathers John’s pajamas and a glass of water, which he deposits in the bathroom. Concluding that he has done all he can, Sherlock regretfully rouses John. As John rises and heads for his bath, Sherlock shuts himself in his room to pack the box back under his bed.

Sherlock hears the slosh of water in the tub as John gets in and the clink of a glass being set back down. John heaves a loud, contended sigh before settling into silence.

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock shuts his eyes and enjoys the companionable quiet. At fifteen minutes, his eyes snap open. After twenty minutes, he is pacing a familiar path around his room. At thirty minutes, Sherlock cannot hold back any longer. Visions of John asleep and fully submerged flash through his mind.

He races into the hallway and knocks on the door. Relief rushes through him as a tired but clear reply comes immediately.

“I’m sorry, John. It was just so quiet, and I wasn’t sure –

Anyway, I am sorry for disturbing you. I’ll just…”

 

“Sherlock, come in here. Please?”

Sherlock takes a grounding breath and pushes the door open. John is slumped boneless in the tub. The flickering candlelight highlights the deep, clear blue of his eyes, and Sherlock almost forgets why he is here. He sits heavily on the closed toilet lid without thinking to do so. John smiles, warm and indulgent.

“You were worried about me.”

John waggles his eyebrows teasingly, forcing a laugh out of Sherlock. He doesn’t bother denying it.

“Where did you get this stuff?”

John gestures at the candles and bath water. Sherlock hesitates momentarily before reaching into his pocket. He leans over and deposits the lighter into John’s hand. John looks disbelievingly at the small object. It’s his lighter. No question about it.

“You kept it? You kept all this?”

Sherlock nods once, embarrassed at the blatant display of sentiment.

“I’m glad.”

John speaks so softly that Sherlock almost misses it. His mouth hangs open in shock, and John clears his throat as he changes the subject. 

“I should get out.”

He wiggles his toes at Sherlock.

“I’m getting all pruney.”

Sherlock stands and heads for the door.

“Yes. You should rest.”

It takes John several minutes to drain the tub and dress. Sherlock listens for the telltale sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs to his room, but none come. 

Curious, Sherlock ventures out of his room and is surprised to see John spreading a blanket over the sofa. He looks sheepishly at Sherlock when he notices his presence. 

“Not feeling so well. Not sure I can make it upstairs.”

“You can’t sleep here, John. It’ll play hell with your shoulder.”

John looks like he is about to argue, so Sherlock jumps in again.

“You could sleep in my room.”

John raises a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s clean, I swear.”

“Never doubted you. ‘Ta.”

John shuffles to the bedroom while Sherlock trails behind him uncertainly. As John climbs under the comforter, Sherlock glances around making sure everything is in order.

“Do you need anything?”

John turns to look at him. 

“No. You’ve done so much already. Thank You.”

Sherlock blushes and turns to leave. He stops when John’s steady fingers close around his wrist. John’s eyes are already closed, and his words sound cumbersome as he fights the drowsiness.

“Stay?”

Sherlock climbs hesitantly onto the bed and lies stiffly on top of the comforter. John’s hand pats across the bed until it brushes Sherlock’s. John twines their fingers together and raises Sherlock’s hand to his lips. He peppers kisses over each knuckle and the back of his hand. John falls asleep with their tangled hands resting over his heart. Sherlock stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit my on tumblr (@daringlydomestic) or let me know what you thought in the comments below. Every comment is so, so precious. They sustain me!


	5. Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 5 - Work

John wakes to the sound of incessant typing. Mary must be online ordering that kale he failed to grow. She asked him to grow some weeks ago, but despite the vegetable's hardy cold tolerance, it had proven an impossible task. The kale simply would not grow for him. Mary's taken it as a personal slight.

_It's a prime ingredient in the smoothies, John! We both want to have a baby, don't we? We agreed this was the best way to make that happen. Kale has many health benefits…_

He squeezes his fist and savors the last few moments of peace before he will have to open his eyes to the life that is now his: John and Mary in their too big house with the empty yellow room.

Mary shifts in the bed and John feels her bony hip press against his shoulder. She heaves a deep sigh in a very familiar baritone.

_Hang on…_

John cautiously opens one eye, afraid that he'll be wrong. But he's not. He's at Baker Street. In Sherlock's bed. With Sherlock next to him.

_How in the world…_

Sherlock smiles a lazy, half-smile at him, and John decides he doesn't really care. However this happened, and he's certain Sherlock will tell him later, John is exactly where he wants to be. He heaves himself into a full-body stretch and takes pleasure in the shiver that ripples through his muscles. He feels surprisingly well rested.

John rolls onto his side, propping his arm under his chin to glance at the laptop. Several photographs of a dark-haired woman surround a briefing with ostentatious stamp marks reading: _HIGHLY CLASSIFIED_. Clearly from Mycroft. John lets his attention wander to the studious expression wrapping itself across Sherlock's face. His forehead puckers over eyebrows drawn intensely downward, and his lips are pressed into a severely thin line.

It takes several moments for Sherlock to register John's attention. The file must be fascinating. John smirks and his eyes flit back across the screen, taking in actual details this time. Something about the woman's bone structure catches his eye. As he leans in to take a closer look, Sherlock snaps the laptop closed and swings his legs off the mattress. 

"Tea, John?"

John's mouth answers before his brain can register the change in topic.

"Tea. Yeah. Tea is...uh…good."

"Milk. Two sugars. I'll be in the sitting room."

John watches Sherlock swan out of the room. He draws his severely confused brain back to the task at hand and wraps a dressing gown around himself before following his mad friend.

"Oi! I didn't offer to make you tea!"

John can practically hear the eyeball roll. He stalks angrily toward Sherlock's chair and looms over the man, a trick he can only pull off when the lanky git is sitting down. He lets the ice of his glare unsettle Sherlock for a few moments before speaking.

"Now, what were you trying so hard to hide. Hmm?"

Sherlock glances down and evades the question by picking at his cuticles. John is having none of it. He grabs Sherlock's hand, forcing him to stop. The contact shocks Sherlock into looking directly into John's eyes and he finds himself compelled to answer.

"Case file from Mycroft."

"Clearly."

Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"It was marked _highly confidential_. It really wasn't that hard a leap."

Sherlock grumbles but concedes the point.

"Why did you hide the file? Does it have to do with Moriarty? Can't I help? I want to help."

Sherlock looks grim, and John is suddenly not sure he wants an answer anymore. He sinks into his own chair anxiously.

"It involves one Annabelle Georgiana Rothschild Aimes. The only daughter of Cyrus Tiberius Aimes, previously of Savannah, Georgia."

The name clearly means nothing to John, who stares at Sherlock in a state of total befuddlement.

“Who is Annabelle Georgie….whoever?”

“Annabelle Georgiana Rothschild Aimes.”

“Not the point, Sherlock.”

“Annabelle’s mother was heiress to the Post fortune.”

“Post?”

“Cereal, John!”

John can feel the thread of the conversation slipping quickly away.

“Why would that be confidential?”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Sherlock….”

“Annabelle died just after her twentieth birthday on a study abroad trip in Vienna.”

“Sherlock, I swear to God, if you are just winding me up!”

“The death of Annabelle Aimes was arranged as part of her employment contract with the American Central Intelligence Agency. Her family was to believe her dead and she was to have no further contact with any acquaintances from her pre-employment life.”

“So, we’re looking for a CIA agent?”

“No.”

“But you just said she worked for the CIA!”

“Not for long.”

A cold greasy feeling settles in John’s stomach as the conversation begins to feel a little too familiar. Magnussen’s sadistic voice echoes through John’s mind.

_All those wet jobs for the CIA._

_She’s gone a bit freelance now._

_She is so wicked._

John shudders at the memory of that grotesque grin. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact as he rubs his feet distractedly across the carpet. Sherlock can read the recognition in the resigned slump of John’s body. He knew they would have to talk about this, but he already misses the gentle intimacy of the morning. Soft sunlight illuminating John’s face as Sherlock worked beside him.

Sherlock shakes his head hard. He mustn’t allow himself to get carried away. John was sick and vulnerable last night. Surely, it didn’t mean anything. He just hadn’t wanted to be alone. Sherlock had taken advantage. He had been too accommodating, though no one had ever said that about him before.

He is drawn out of his self-flagellation by John’s determined voice.

“This is about Mary, then.”

Sherlock merely inclines his head in an affirmative motion.

“It’s about more than serving me a few poisoned smoothies.”

“Why do you say that?”

Sherlock is genuinely curious. John has not always been the most luminous of people, but he is constantly surprising Sherlock.

“The file came from Mycroft.”

John speaks as if the one short sentence explains it all. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow.

“And it was marked _highly confidential_. Even taking into consideration, my overinflated sense of self-importance,” John says, all sarcasm, “making me sick wouldn’t justify this level of investigation. What’s going on, Sherlock?”

Sherlock breathes deeply and steeples his hands under his chin, fixing his intense stare on John.

“I don’t know yet.”

John snorts in disbelief and impatience.

“Honestly, John. I don’t. As you know, Mycroft and I have been working on the Moriarty message that played during my pathetically-attempted exile.”

They both wince at the attempted nonchalance. Clearly, it’s still too soon for joking.

“We’ve heard whispers and caught glimpses, but we haven’t had any solid leads. Until now.”

Sherlock pulls a second folder out from underneath his chair and spreads the papers across the coffee table. John identifies them as autopsy reports and dives in. Fifteen minutes later, John’s head is swimming. This can’t mean… Sherlock doesn’t mean…

“Six separate cases. The poison has been identified as Lantana Camara, or Red Sage. It’s often fatal and can affect the lungs, kidneys, heart, and nervous system of those who ingest it.”

John flips through the pages again, double-checking a crucial detail.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“The dates…”

“Yes, John. They were all killed after the message aired.”

“You think Moriarty is behind this?”

“Undoubtedly, in one capacity or another.”

John’s head is spinning and the air in the room might be a little thin. He’ll have to remember to tell Sherlock to look into that.

“But you said he was dead.”

“He is.”

John shakes his head and tries to bully his lungs into operating correctly. He is not very successful.

“Then how is he behind these deaths? They’re recent, committed long after he died.”

“His enterprise was carried on by a trusted associate, his second in command.”

Suddenly, the pieces slot into place, and John can see where Sherlock’s logic is leading them.

“You don’t mean – “

John can’t finish the sentence. He just can’t. Sherlock seems to understand as he rifles through his papers. After a few moments of diligent searching, he holds up a slightly tattered surveillance photograph of the young, dark-haired woman handing something to James Moriarty. John would recognize that flat, dead gaze anywhere. The photo is enhanced to focus on the small parcel the woman clutches tightly in her fist: a small metal flash drive that reads A.G.R.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun looking up poisonous plants. You can find more info at http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/earthkind/landscape/poisonous-plants-resources/common-poisonous-plants-and-plant-parts/


	6. Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 6 - Hair

The revelation of a Mary-Moriarty partnership should capture John’s full attention, but it’s really the dark, unfamiliar fringe that steals his focus. Mary’s hair is long with curls hanging past her shoulders. The look softens her and makes her seem younger, more vulnerable than the experience-hardened woman he married. Perhaps the woman in the picture was. Who knows when the photograph was taken?

John snorts to himself. Sherlock probably knows, but John can’t bring himself to ask. In fact, he can’t think of a single thing to say. The silence stretches as both men fight for their usual on-a-case detachment.

Sherlock shuffles the contents of the file and rereads the autopsies. He memorized them hours ago, but it is something convenient to do. Despite the loss sweeping over John, it is his own heartbreak that makes it impossible to look directly at the man across from him.

Just a few hours ago, when Sherlock had returned from fetching the laptop, John had snuffled into the pillow and rolled over in his sleep to nestle his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The warmth of John's skin on his shoulder was searing, even through his t-shirt and dressing gown. A smile had stretched its way across John's face, and Sherlock's traitorous heart had allowed him to hope. He'd imagined thousands of mornings that start the exact same way. He'd imagined rainy days and sunny days and "I hope to God we don't have a case because I just want to watch your chest rise and fall" days. Every day, every possible future that Sherlock can imagine includes John Watson, however he can have him.

Sherlock realizes he has been staring at the same page of the report for several minutes and wonders if John has noticed. He flicks his eyes to John's face. It is immediately apparent that John would not notice a troop of murderous assassins in the flat right now. Sherlock sighs, flips the page, and settles in to wait.

After several minutes, John gives it up for a loss. He’ll never be able to treat this like just another case. Not when it actually signifies the collapse of the life he has so carefully constructed. He has spent so much energy becoming normal, steady, safe John Watson that he willfully ignored the details that he couldn’t make fit. He should have known better. He’s heard Sherlock berate Scotland Yard often enough.

_You’ve got a solution that you like, but you’re choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with it._

John holds that beautiful, impossible future in his mind for a moment. He sees Mary smiling, kneeling, sweating in a sprawling garden under the noonday sun as two children chase dragonflies. He watches the children rush up the path as John arrives home from the clinic, swinging the side gate open. He imagines raucous family dinners and sweet, sleepy baths. He can almost feel the strength of tiny arms wrapped around his legs and smell the indescribable scent of childhood. John allows the hope and happiness to fill him.

Then, he opens his eyes.

He always knew, deep in his bones, that it had only ever been a dream. He allows himself to finally notice all the discrepancies. He recalls every moment the reality of Mary stretched the boundaries of the fantasy and every time he’d knowingly turned a blind eye. He remembers _he would have needed a confidant_ and _it's a skip code._ Sherlock had relayed the story of bonfire night to John, and they had both thought it impressive that Mary identified a skip code on sight. John had just chalked it up to her eccentric hobbies and veracity to learn. Thinking back, John hadn't really been fooled. That piece of information had flared like a homing beacon signaling danger and lies, but he hadn't wanted to think about it. And Sherlock had let him. Sherlock made it possible for John to go on living the life of John Watson, husband MD. Sherlock had taken it upon himself to research and surveil without forcing John to acknowledge the truth. How many more times will the man cut himself open and sacrifice everything for John? How many more times will John fail to notice?

John wallows in the heartbreak and guilt for a minute before locking it up tight. He shrinks it all, folds it over and over until it is just a tiny fleck in his mind. He’ll mourn later. Now, there’s work to do.

He swallows hard and gives a firm nod. Sherlock understands immediately. He rises from his chair and paces across the flat. He will treat this like just another case, though it is anything but. John won't be able to completely detach, but he'll appreciate Sherlock's effort to keep it as impersonal as possible.

"The woman we know as Mary Morstan acquired her identity just over four years ago upon entering the United Kingdom. Her movements before that time are not known but it is a good guess that she spent quite some time in Eastern Europe. The photograph of her and James Moriarty was taken just after she came to London around New Year. Digging into the details of this relationship has been difficult to say the least, given the fact that I took care of Moriarty's _known_ associates. There aren't many sources with the institutional knowledge to tell us what we need to know."

Sherlock stops pacing at the discouraged look on John's face.

"That does not mean that the undertaking is hopeless, however. It just requires more time for us to dig and explore more tenuous connections."

Both of their heads snap toward the entrance of 221B as the door swings open.

"We have quite run out of time, don't you think, brother dear?"

Without waiting for a welcome he knows will never come, Mycroft Holmes saunters into the flat. He sits himself on the sofa with a primness that would have set John to snickering if he'd had any brainpower to spare. Twisting the umbrella in his hand, Mycroft turns to address Sherlock.

"The Serbian contingent has developed a lead. Your little theory has paid off, it seems."

A shadow passes over Sherlock's face, and he flinches at the mention of "Serbia." John takes the opportunity to survey his friend. The longer he looks, the more concerned he becomes. Sherlock's entire body is strung tight and his muscles quiver with the effort of holding each muscle taut. He alternates between staring at Mycroft in disgust and sweeping the room, subtly checking all access points. His dressing gown is belted and wrapped securely around him, despite the t-shirt and pajama pants he is already wearing. He is even wearing a thick pair of dress socks. John has never seen the man wear socks in the flat. Not once. John tries to focus on what Mycroft is saying, but his brain is all but shouting at him to look deeper and pay attention this time for God's sake. Something is very wrong, and it just might be John's fault.

"…swift action will be required. No doubt you will fill Doctor Watson in on the information he has missed during his excessive perusal of your person."

Sherlock waves him off with _a yes, yes_ flap of his hand, but Mycroft is not so easily deterred. He walks over to stand next to his brother and his voice is low but firm. 

 _"_ We have the code words for a reason, Sherlock. Use them, won't you?"

The brothers stare at one another for several long moments. John briefly contemplates getting up and breaking the stalemate, but decides against it. At last, Sherlock gives a terse nod, and Mycroft breathes deep. John would almost swear it was a sigh of relief. If it had been anyone other than Mycroft Holmes John would have known it with certainty.

 _"_ Thanks so much for stopping by. Your presence is thrilling as ever, brother mine. Now, get out."

Mycroft spins on his heels and leaves with a small parting nod directed at John.

John turns to Sherlock, suddenly eager to know everything now that Mycroft has formulated a plan.

"So…"

Sherlock pulls his hair in exasperation before settling a disproving glare at John.

"You really weren't paying attention at all, were you?"

 _No_ , John wants to tell him. _Apparently I wasn't. I didn't see. How did I not see? You aren't okay and I didn't notice. I'm sorry, Sherlock. So sorry. Tell me. Tell me everything that happened to you while I wasn't there to help. I would have been, you know? I would have done anything you asked. I would have followed you anywhere. I would have only needed one word and I would have left the entirety of my life behind._

John doesn't say that. He knows Sherlock is talking about the conversation with Mycroft, so he squares his shoulders and answers directly.

"No. Fill me in?"


	7. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 7 - Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry to have been away so long. This chapter was difficult to write and life is not so accommodating to my writing right now. Thank you to everyone who has waited and been really supportive. It is deeply appreciated. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

"Yoo-hoo!" 

Mrs. Hudson's heels clack up the stairs.

"Sherlock, I brought you some biscuits dear."

Sherlock's whole body sways toward the plate and his nostrils flare as he tries to determine the biscuit type by scent alone. Mrs. Hudson pats his cheek and heads for the kitchen.

"Chocolate raspberry."

She gives him a knowing, indulgent look as she sets the plate on their counter, staring mutinously at the bacteria cultures and microscope hogging the kitchen table.

"My favorite."

John chuckles at the uncharacteristic obviousness of the statement. Sherlock either does not hear or chooses to ignore John's mirth. Instead, he sways back and forth on his feet and twists the belt of his dressing gown around his wrist.

"Why?"

Mrs. Hudson's face darkens and Sherlock stops fidgeting immediately. He stands perfectly still, drawn up to his full height. He has picked up a few habits from his time with John. Apparently, standing at military attention in anticipation of battle is one of them.

"I heard that _reptile_ slither into the building this morning. The gall of him! Can you imagine? Showing up uninvited to someone's flat at half six in the morning? Anyway, I heard the unbearable _thump_ of his umbrella on the stairs, and I figured you'd be needing some biscuits for afters."

Sherlock's face breaks into one of his rare, genuine smiles. The kind that twitches the corner of his lips but really shines from his eyes. The tension leeches from his frame slowly and his back curves softly as he breathes out.

John crosses the room, grasps Sherlock's arm reassuringly, and follows Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen to start the kettle.

"You'll stay for some tea, won't you?"

John's request is honest and hopeful, so Mrs. Hudson agrees. John even offers up his armchair, but Mrs. Hudson balks at the very idea, settling herself primly onto the sofa. She stretches her legs out gratefully and absently rubs her hip. Sherlock's brows draw down in consternation at the tell-tale signs of pain telegraphed by his landlady's actions. Mrs. Hudson waves off his concern and coaxes him into his armchair.

By the time, John returns with the tea tray, Sherlock is midway through a reminiscence of one of his earliest cases. Mrs. Hudson loves to listen to Sherlock describe his work, but it is a rare indulgence. Though the detective is hardly humble, he considers the success of a case well-solved the highest praise and rarely has the patience for retelling cases that have already been solved. That is rightly John's domain.

Mrs. Hudson feels happiness fill her heart as John pours tea and adds just the right amount of sugar to Sherlock's cup. The detective accepts it without even looking and sips eagerly between streams of dialogue. The simple trusting domesticity of the flat warms her heart in a way she never thought she'd live to see. They may not be _together_ -together, as they so often claim, but they are clearly a couple. The men of 221B complement each other. They move together in the choreography of shared-living effortless, as if they have always done so. It clearly was meant to be.

The rightness of the morning leaves Mrs. Hudson a little teary-eyed when she thinks of the detective she met all those years ago. Back then, Sherlock was vain, arrogant, rude, and often incredibly high. She had more than once checked in on him to find him shivering through destitution-based withdrawal or hallucinating his way through his new score. She had feared for him so much back then. Still does, truth be told, but with John, she doesn’t worry so much.

Mrs. Hudson sips her tea as she pulls her focus back to the present. Her short trip down memory lane has obviously not occurred to John, who is too busy staring fixedly at Sherlock to notice much of anything happening in the flat. Sherlock, however, is looking at Mrs. Hudson with tenderness, understanding, gratitude, and slight annoyance. It's typical Sherlockian fondness at its finest, and Mrs. Hudson basks in it.

All too soon, Sherlock has finished his story and is actively cramming several biscuits into his mouth. The daft git must have forgotten to eat again. Shaking her head fondly, Mrs. Hudson takes her leave and heads back downstairs. She does have bridge later today, and she promised Mrs. Turner that she would bring some of those lemon meringue tarts that were such a crowd pleaser last time. She should have just enough time to run to the store, cook the tarts, and get to bridge on time if she gets a move on now. 

As soon as the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat is safely closed, Sherlock springs into motion. He sweeps the biscuit crumbs off the front of his dressing gown and flies toward his bedroom. John, startled by the sudden change, is barely on his feet before Sherlock's door slams shut. Determined to get at least some answers out of the mad man, John yells through the door.

"Oi! You still have a plan to explain. Remember?"

He can hear Sherlock's weary sigh through the wood.

"Yes, John. I can actually remember sentences uttered not thirty minutes ago, but we don't have any time to waste. The plan must be put into action as soon as possible and as enjoyable as teatime with the landlady was, it has put us behind schedule. Now, I need you to go see Mycroft. He has the rest of the details. Don't argue. I've had about as much of him as I can stomach today, so you have to be the one to go. After that, meet me back here. We need to orchestrate a meeting with your wife."

Sherlock flings his door open on the word wife, and John pitches forward, almost careening head-first into the floor. Luckily, Sherlock's solid torso blocks the way. John's forehead rests against the soft silk of Sherlock's expensive button up and he can feel the subtle rise and fall of the chest beneath the shirt. Sherlock gently grips John’s shoulders to steady him before easing him back upright.

Sherlock brushes the creases out of his shirt and slides gracefully around John to gather his wallet and keys off the kitchen table. John, resigning himself to a morning full of Mycroft, sighs and heads for the stairs. Sherlock shouts at him to text when he is done at the Diogenes, and John just manages to hear it all before he slams his door shut.

Sherlock smiles at the familiar grumpy action, but the smile slides quickly off his face as he gets to work. He pulls his phone out of his trouser pocket and fires off a message.

[TEXT] Addlestone at 9. Alone and unarmed. – SH

Sherlock paces the sitting room as he waits for a reply. He can hear John muttering to himself as he slams dresser drawers. He lets out an inadvertent chuckle at the _thump-thump-crash_ that signifies John hopping from foot to foot as he tries to get his trousers on and almost falls. All is silent for thirty seconds, and Sherlock is contemplating going upstairs to check on John when his phone pings.

[TEXT] I will know if you bring him. – M

Sherlock’s hand shakes as he slides the phone back into his pocket. He wraps his scarf around his neck, despite the warm day, and leaves. If he waits, John will notice that something is wrong. He has gotten surprisingly observant during Sherlock’s time away. Tucking his chin to his chest, Sherlock strides purposefully down Baker St. pretending he has the situation under control.

John comes down the stairs five minutes later and is unsurprised to find Sherlock gone. He gulps down the rest of his tea, which has gone cold by now, and mutters about _ungrateful bastard geniuses_. He puts the empty mug in the sink for later, grabs his jacket, and hails a cab. Bloody Mycroft can bloody well pay his transportation costs this morning after coming to Baker St. before dawn and not even bothering to relay _all_ the information so that John has to come after him. Arrogant arse! John is not at all amused.

Thankfully, the traffic isn’t too bad and John arrives slightly sooner than he planned. The cabbie benefits from the uptick in John’s mood and thanks him repeatedly for his generous tip. John nods back and shuts the door behind him.

He stands in front of the Diogenes Club and pulls his Army-ingrained confidence around him. John hasn’t let richer, taller, stronger men intimidate him since uni, but there is something about this place that cuts right through him. It makes him feel small and vulnerable and lacking. He hates it.

John draws his shoulders back, breathes deeply, and jogs up the steps. He opens the door to a mahogany lobby and signs in at the desk. John looks around, expecting Anthea to appear out of thin air and escort him to Mycroft. The silence of the club grows oppressive, and John wishes someone would cough or sigh. At this point, he would take a smoker just for the reassurance of the puffing noise.

After several minutes, a harried-looking young man walks briskly across the atrium and hands a small card to the doorman. The doorman nods, but the besuited young man is already walking away, tapping frantically at his Blackberry. The doorman holds the card out for John, who is surprised but takes it.

_Mr. Holmes is not in at the moment. He sends his deepest regrets for the logistical miscommunication._

John clenches his fist, crushing the card in his hand. Of all the ridiculous things Mycroft has put him through, this ranks right up there. Does he not think John deserves to know everything about his lying, cheating murderer of a wife? Does he not think John deserves to be in on the plan this time? Or is this Sherlock’s work around? He had promised never to exclude John again, but does he thinks he can get around it by making the exclusion come from his brother?

John is tired and the silent rule will not keep him quiet much longer, so he pushes past the doorman and stumbles back onto the street. He knows he was rude, but he can hardly bring himself to care. He closes his eyes and takes two deep breaths. The breaths help push back the panic, so he can think. If Sherlock sent him on a wild goose chase on purpose, that means he had an ulterior motive for doing so. But what?

His blood runs cold as the answer occurs to him. John rips the mobile out of his pocket and punches in Mycroft’s direct line. It only rings once before the man himself answers. That alone is unusual. Usually, one of his minions answers first to screen calls. He must have been expecting John after being notified about the mix up at the Diogenes. John doesn’t waste any time on pleasantries.

“Find him.”

Mycroft’s low, oily voice drawls away at him.

“Why, hello, John. What a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Sod off, Mycroft. Just find him. Now.”

“Am I to assume we are talking about my perpetually disappearing brother?”

John just breathes heavily and refuses to rise to the bait. Mycroft waits, but John can hear his team working in the background.

“What has he done now?”

The question itself is innocuous, but the tone of Mycroft’s voice sends a cold chill down his spine.

“Why? Where is he?”

“Addlestone. What is he doing, John?”

For once, John doesn’t have to puzzle out Sherlock’s motives. If he lived a thousand more years, he would never forget that abandoned sweets factory and the two frightened, sick, chocolate-covered children huddled in the dark. He abruptly hangs up without answering Mycroft. He steals a cab from a Westminster-type, not caring which cabinet secretary he has pissed off now. All that matters is that he gets to Addlestone. _Now._ Before Sherlock does something stupid.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is across town doing something extremely stupid. He slides the warehouse door open and walks confidently into the center of the room. His head rotates on a swivel, searching for any signs of movement.

A voice echoes through the empty warehouse. Sherlock concentrates and determines that the person is on the floor above him, so he cranes his neck to attempt to pinpoint their location.

“Sherlock Holmes is playing by the rules? My, how the mighty have fallen!”

Sherlock’s search turns frantic as the echoing distorts the sound waves, throwing them against the walls and concealing the enemy’s position.

“Come alone, have you?”

Sherlock concedes the point.

“Yes, as I’m sure you observed. Bird’s eye-view up there. You’ve seen for yourself. Now come down here and we can discuss the situation.”

A high-pitched giggle echoes, but Sherlock distinctly hears receding footsteps and the thump of each step down the stairs. Sherlock fumbles in his pocket and clicks on the tape recorder he concealed earlier.

Dressed in a familiar black outfit that sends painful spikes of déjà vu through Sherlock’s chest, Mary steps out from the shadows and fixes him with a disdainful gaze. They stare intently at one another, a silent match of wills. Sherlock breaks and speaks first. He needs the information too much. There is too much on the line to waste time playing Mary’s games.

“How long?”

Mary looks pensively at the gun she is twirling around in her hand.

“Oh Sherlock, surely you’ve figured that out by now.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash at the insult. He spent years infiltrating Moriarty’s web. Of course, he gained valuable information, but most of it was current. It didn’t stretch back far enough for him to answer the question he most wants to know. When did the arrangement start? Why? Was it a partnership? Was she coerced? Who were they to one another? Employer-employee?

Mary seems to read all of the questions in his eyes and laughs.

“Of all the strategic facts you could be extracting, you’re still hoping I was trapped into this life. Tsk. Tsk. You should know by now that I never do anything I don’t want to do.”

Sherlock’s blood runs cold as he hears the quiet snick of a window rising. He rushes to keep Mary’s focus. He is going to bloody kill Mycroft. Why couldn’t he just keep John busy for an hour?

“No? Tell me then. What was the attraction?”

Mary’s smile might more properly be called a snarl as she bears her teeth.

“Connections. You would not believe the connections Jim had. Anyone who was anyone in the criminal world had thrown their lot in with him. How could I resist that much power?”

“You rose quickly, I bet. Jim would have liked you. Sharp, cold, precise. Efficient.”

Mary inclines her head in acceptance, but Sherlock barely sees. He is busy watching John drop from the window and sneak along the shadows.

“But then Jim died and his network splintered. A lot of people got desperate…”

“Is that what this is? Desperation, Mary?”

“You still don’t understand. Do you, Sherlock? Oh God! This has been fun - toying with you. Letting you weed out all the agents that refused to bow to me. Letting you take care of all the idiots who stayed loyal to Jim, even to the end. How boring! You did all the heavy lifting for me and the best part is - I got John.”

John goes still in the background, and Mary smirks as Sherlock goes white.

“I got to hold him, feel him, fuck him and you got to suffer. Every moment you spent getting whipped, kicked, burnt, choked in Venezuela, Moscow, or Serbia, was a moment I spent touching, tasting, having John. And it worked. He _loves_ me, Sherlock, and he will never love you. Why would he? He was my assignment, and I made sure to be everything he needed.”

Sherlock is shaking, and he can’t stop. Control. He needs control. He needs to focus and take care of the situation. Mary hasn’t noticed John’s presence yet, but she will if Sherlock doesn’t keep her distracted. He can feel his heart racing and his breathing speeding up, but nothing is working to calm him.

“So that’s what this is all about. Getting me out of the way so you can run Jim’s empire?”

John has snuck fully behind Mary and starts to sidle closer, putting him partially into the light. Sherlock’s palms are sweating now, and he’s not sure how much longer he will be able to maintain his calm mask. He is aware that Mary has already noticed the shaking. He’ll be damned if he lets her see the true depths of his weakness.

“It was…for a while. Magnussen changed everything. He was truly a font of knowledge, that man. Told me lots of helpful things about the Ice Man and his _activities_. He’s the important one in the family, isn’t he? I’ve been done with you for months now, Sherlock, but I couldn’t get close to Mycroft without you. So, John and I needed to stay together. He values your friendship so much, and you would do anything for him. Without him, I would be of no consequence to you, and I needed you invested.”

John, it seems, has had enough. He cocks the hammer back on his gun and grits his teeth.

“Nice to finally know the truth, Mary.”

She whips around in surprise at his proximity.

“Oh John. You didn’t really think we had something, did you?”

John says nothing but tightens his grip on the gun. Sherlock’s stomach flips, clearly John did think his marriage to Mary meant something. He steps forward to intervene, but Mary refocuses the gun on him. She knows that threatening Sherlock works even better than pointing the gun at John himself.

John moves slowly but deliberately to place himself in front of the detective, an actual human shield. Mary sneers and raises her arm, adjusting her aim for Sherlock’s forehead.

“Is this necessary? You are both going to die here. Why the theatrics?”

John draws himself as tall as he can to cover more surface area.

“Because, Mary, that is what you do for people you love.”

"Love? What is love, John?"

Mary’s question rushes through Sherlock’s mind alongside the bang of a gun. Mary turns on her heel and runs. Sherlock, trusting fully in John’s ability, doesn’t even move. He knows John could make a kill shot across the entire distance of the warehouse without breaking a sweat. Sherlock waits for a shot that never comes.

He quickly becomes concerned as John stumbles. Sherlock drops to his knees and catches John as his legs refuse to support him any longer. The gun drops from his lax hand, and his eyes flutter. Sherlock frantically searches for the injury that must be causing this reaction.

All motion stops as he discovers the wound. It is now clear that John didn’t drop the gun out of exhaustion. He dropped it because he could no longer physically hold the weapon with the damage his shoulder sustained. His shirt is quickly soaking crimson. Sherlock whips off his scarf and tries to stem the flow. He quickly calls emergency services and gives them the necessary information. As he hangs up, he knows the exchange was sufficient, but he can’t for the life of him remember anything he said. All that matters is that John is here, and the man in his arms is dying.

 


	8. Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty Day Challenge: Day 8 - Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is taking much longer than originally planned. Thank you to everyone who is still reading!

Sherlock holds onto the cold metal safety bar as they wheel John through the sliding doors. His head spins as he takes in the florescent lighting and rapid-fire dialogue. He wishes John were here to explain the medical shorthand. Sherlock has no chance of deciphering it on his own. Suddenly, a weathered, gentle hand grasps him by the shoulder. Sherlock struggles against the hold, his panic rising as adrenaline floods his system. _Don't they understand? He has to be with John._

"I know, Sherlock, but he needs the doctors now."

 _Oh_ , he hadn’t realized he was speaking out loud. Sherlock turns and finds himself face-to-face with Lestrade. Something in his face must show the true depths of his fear because the DI gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting go. 

The doors to the operating theatre slam shut as John is wheeled where Sherlock can't follow. He starts to pace, fisting his hair in a desperate attempt to do… _anything_. 

Lestrade watches the detective prowl across the waiting room and sighs deeply. He lets the man work off the excess energy before speaking, low and clear.

"We'll stay."

Sherlock pauses and cocks an eyebrow as Greg powers on.

"We'll stay here…for John." 

Sherlock's swallows roughly, Adam's apple bobbing, and nods tersely, hoping Lestrade will understand the gratitude he is trying to convey. He's not sure he is successful, after all the gratitude is buried beneath a metric ton of terror. 

The ticking of the clock sets the pace for Sherlock's solemn march back and forth across the stained linoleum. _130._ A wailing child attached to a pale, thin freckled man joins them an hour in. _131._ The waiting room bursts into action when the wailing cuts off abruptly. Clearly, the man is not a parent. He didn’t know not to give the kid a hard candy. Idiot. _132._ Sometime later, Lestrade gets a call. He goes into the corner to speak softly. _133._ Sherlock's shoes are specked with clay and dirt and blood. They leave residue on the linoleum. He is wearing a hole into the inside of the left shoe. His big toe has always distended slightly on that side. _134._ Sherlock stumbles on his 134th trip across the room. It suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't even know which hospital he is in. _135._ He is pretty sure the paramedics were discussing John's condition on the ride here, but Sherlock hadn't absorbed anything. _136._ What if he missed something important? What if he knew something they missed? _137._ What if John needed him to be brilliant? What if he just failed John?

Sherlock keens with despair, dragging Lestrade from his corner conversation. He looks on helplessly, trying to find anything to distract the detective. _138._ As he watches Sherlock pace, he realizes the man is muttering, over and over: _What have I done? What have I done?_

"Sherlock."

The detective shakes his head and keeps walking. _145._ Greg draws himself to his full height and steps directly into Sherlock's path.

"Sherlock."

The man explodes, screaming and gesticulating wildly.

"What Lestrade? What do you want? You want me to talk about it? You want me to tell you my _feelings_? You want me to sit and cry? Will any of that help John? No? Then I will continue doing none of those things, so just LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Sherlock."

His name rings out in a steady, earnest voice he recognizes from his childhood. It is the voice that told him bedtime stories filled with swordfights and gold. It is the voice that instructed him to hold his fingers "just-so" on the violin. It is the voice that long ago (and more recently in Serbia) signified safety, comfort, and home.

Sherlock freezes, locks eyes with his older brother, and turns green.

He sprints for the bathroom as Mycroft reassures Lestrade that he will handle it. He hands Lestrade his umbrella, straightens his lapel, and follows Sherlock.

Mycroft can hear the sound of his little brother retching through the door. He presses his palm flat against the door and holds silent vigil until the violent sick noises stop. He waits another thirty seconds, but when Sherlock shows no sign of coming out, he tries the door handle, which is locked - of course.

"Are you coming out sometime tonight?" 

No response.

Mycroft sinks down and sits cross-legged on the cold floor. He taps away at his Blackberry ordering Anthea to cancel all appointments through the following evening. Clearly, he is needed here. He keeps himself busy on his mobile while he waits. 

Eventually, Sherlock starts to speak, but his voice is so low that Mycroft can't quite make out the words. He presses his ear to the door and just catches the end. 

" --- No. Please. I don't know. I-I don't…I don't k-know. Pleas---" 

Sherlock's pleading cuts off with an inhuman screech that sends Mycroft sprawling as his ears ring. His Blackberry hits the floor and shatters as he rams his shoulder against the door. When the lock breaks, Sherlock is huddled in the corner of the shower, knees hugged to his chest. The crash of the door hitting the ground resounds loudly in the small room, and Sherlock shrinks further into the corner, covers his head with his arms, and begs again.

"No more. I can't -- I don't -- No. No! I want… I want my…"

Sherlock doesn’t realize he is pleading in Serbian. Mycroft doesn't move, speaking gently.

"I'm here, 'Lock. I'm here. You are okay. You are at Imperial College Hospital. You are not in Serbia anymore. You are safe."

Sherlock's arms twitch but his frame remains locked tight. Mycroft lowers his voice and tries again. 

"You're safe, Bee."

Moments tick by between the two brothers frozen on opposite sides of the cramped bathroom. Finally, Sherlock moves slowly as the words sink in. He raises his head and his eyes search the room for the lie, the detail that will prove he is still in Serbia. His mind is tricking him. Mycroft is not really here. Acceptance flashes in his eye as he notices the broken shards of Mycroft's Blackberry. His whole body starts to shake, and he swallows convulsively. Finally managing to get his voice to work, Sherlock looks up through wet lashes and asks in a cracked, vulnerable voice: 

"My?"

Mycroft reaches toward his brother, palms up, and moves slowly to sit at Sherlock's side.

"I'm here. You’re safe. I promise, Sherlock. You're safe." 

Absorbing the truth, Sherlock shatters and sobs into his knees. Mycroft places his arm around the detective and all the tension in his brother's body unravels. He sags sideways to lean against Mycroft's shoulder. He lets himself be comforted in a way he has not allowed in thirty years. Between sobs, he chokes out questions that not even Mycroft can answer.

"What was the point? What was it all for now? What will I do, My?"

Mycroft bundles Sherlock closer and rocks slowly. It is all he can do.

After a while, the sobs lessen and Sherlock's breathing comes a little more evenly. His body still trembles, and Mycroft runs his arms, trying to warm him. Footsteps echo down the hallway, alerting them a few seconds before Lestrade's concerned face appears around the corner. The D.I. huffs his astonishment at the tender tableau and looks away. Sherlock pulls his head off of his brother's shoulder and swipes his eyes with the heels of his hands. He draws himself up as much as possible while sitting.

"Yes, Detective Inspector?"

There is no malice in his voice, and Lestrade had thought he couldn't be more shocked.

"They said that John will be in surgery for a while yet. Anyone want coffee?"

Mycroft's hand slips off Sherlock's back as he stands.

"Good idea. I will accompany you."

He casts a long glance back and catches Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. The detective nods his gratitude and the corner of Mycroft's lip twitches upward in acknowledgement. Lestrade remains oblivious. Once the two men are out of view, Sherlock rinses his face with cool water. The chill revives him and he slides his emotional detachment back into place. There will be time for vulnerability later, but right now John needs him to keep it together. By the time he is done, the only tell of his mental state is the small quiver of his hands as he dries his face.

He rejoins Mycroft and Lestrade in the waiting room and sips thankfully at the hot tea. Damn Mycroft and his forethought. The caffeine of coffee would likely have been too much right now, but he could have saved Sherlock the dignity of refusing it. He wants to be contrary and stomp off to find coffee, regardless of the caffeine consequences, but he doesn’t leave the waiting room again. Damn Mycroft for knowing that too.

Sherlock tucks himself into a chair and lets the cup warm his fingers while they wait. Time passes with no word on John's condition. Mycroft takes off his suit jacket. Lestrade alternates between sitting and standing. The tea grows cold. No one speaks. 

Finally, the doors groan open and an exhausted surgeon beckons them over. The cup of tea falls from Sherlock's hands and lies ignored on the floor. The detective has room only for information about John. 

The doctor drones on about the particulars - gunshot wound, hypotension, collapsed lung, _blah blah blah --_ Sherlock barely hears it. Suddenly, he can't bear waiting any longer. He has to know.

"But he's alive?"

The doctor's mouth hangs open mid-stream, but he recovers quickly and smiles warmly.

"Yes. He is in recovery right now, but when we move him to his room, you will be allowed in to see him."

He walks through more of the particulars, but Sherlock has heard all he needs to know. They will deal with recovery and any complications together. Together - him and John. John will be there because John is alive. He's alive. Moriarty tried to take him away. Now Moriarty is dead. Mary tried to take him away --

Sherlock stalks toward the exit. Lestrade catches him just outside.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock huffs, annoyed.

"Last minute errand. Shouldn't be long." 

Lestrade is not convinced. 

"John would never forgive you!" 

That stops Sherlock in his tracks.

"What?"

His voice is low and deadly. Lestrade's heart rate quickens, but he stands his ground.

"John would barely agree to go after her when you had each other as back up. He would never forgive you if you risked your life going after her now."

Lestrade closes the distance between them as he speaks until he stands right in front of the detective.

"You’re emotional right now. Don't bother denying it. We both know the truth. Stay here. See John. Form a plan. Your brother and I will help. I swear it just…stay. Please."

Sherlock sighs in defeat and turns back toward the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you all thought. Kudos and Comments make the world go round (and my little heart flutter).


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